# The Yokers

Viatcheslav Yatsko

Modified on 2.2.06

They fall from time to time Into exotic trance: In agony they mime, In ecstasy they dance.

The Yokers


Above the frozen country

Dawn changes sunset

Occasionally scarlet,

Continually red.


A quaint queer folk

For ages here abides

Subdued to crimson yoke

Unlike the other tribes


They fall from time to time

Into exotic trance:

In agony they mime,

In ecstasy they dance.


Then utter prayers fervent,

Their deity supplicate

To give them a conferment,

An idol to create.


And then in no time,

Instantly, at once

Appears pagan idol

As if the lightning glance


Rolling out the red carpet

Spreading out welcome mat

Kneel down the humble puppets

To greet their cherished pet


The creature ravens them swiftly

And greedily eats up

And vanishes completely

On shedding tons of blood.


The Yokers don't bewail

And never they lament

Conversely, they proclaim

The idol their saint.


This alien perversion

Bewildered world condemns,

Demands complete inversion

In evil Yokelands.


The Yokers turn deaf ear,

Are paying no heed,

Without any fear

With their toil proceed.


The future I can forecast:

Again there will be dawn

And it will be the Yokers

To run this rosy world